Amerikan Eagle

Morneau went to the communications table, picked up a phone, and started talking. Sam saw something at the farther reaches of the harbor. One of the marines said, “Sarge, looks like we’ve got an admiral’s gig inbound to the harbor.”

The sergeant swiveled his binoculars, and Morneau did too, and Sam was impressed by the professionalism of the other marines: They ignored the approaching boat and kept on scanning the Navy Yard and the harbor. In Sam’s binoculars, the approaching boat bobbed into focus: a white craft with a canopied roof, flying the Nazi flag at the stern. Flanking the small boat were two gunmetal-gray navy gunboats, white numerals crisp on the bow, armed sailors both fore and aft.

“There you go,” Morneau murmured. “Herr Hitler, coming in for a visit. Think the Kingfish is gonna make him eat shrimp gumbo ’fore the day is out?”

The marines laughed. Sam didn’t. He was thinking of a desperate wife in California, giving herself away to try to save her husband, his own frightened family in a labor camp in Manchester, and a secret camp in Vermont, where half-starved Jews slaved under the eyes of fascists, both homegrown and imported.

The boat grew larger in view. Sam focused. Standing in the bow, hands folded before him, was Adolf Hitler. He had on a long gray coat and a peaked cap. The binoculars—damaged as they were—even allowed Sam to see the bastard’s tiny black mustache. Black-clad SS officers were on the deck, some holding on to the canopy, but Hitler stood alone. There had been stories in Time and Life about how Hitler hated the water, but it looked like the son of a bitch was out there, almost defiant, to show that a will that could conquer Europe could also handle a twenty-minute boat ride.

All these American men were up here to protect a bloody dictator who had killed so many and was planning to kill and conquer more. Sam lost the admiral’s gig and the accompanying navy escort, and as he was seeing the jumble of buildings and docks, something moved.

Something quick.

A small boat was darting out of the docks, heading straight toward the admiral’s gig, its engine kicking up a tail of spray.

Sam froze.

The boat was moving fast. There was movement on board. He thought he recognized a shape, saw something protruding.

Tony, he thought, you miserable jerk.

He cleared his throat. Hesitated. One word from him and the boat might be halted, but this close, maybe the damn thing would be sunk and the people on board machine-gunned. If that happened, what would happen to his family?

“Sergeant,” one of the spotters called out quietly. “From the south quay. Small craft, moving fast.”

“Got it,” Chesak said. “Tucker, raise the Yard, tell ’em what we got.”

There was a murmur of voices from the communications table, and Sam’s hands tightened on the binoculars as one of the gunboats flanking the admiral’s gig put on a burst of speed, moving out to intercept the smaller craft. Sam quickly shifted his view to the intruder boat, looking for Tony, seeing what was at the bow, something on a tripod. A weapon? Pretty bulky to be a weapon.

“Newsreel,” Sam called out. “It looks like a newsreel crew.”

The smaller boat chugged to a crawl as the navy gunboat approached and came alongside. Three armed sailors leaped from the gunboat, rifles in hand, and then the navy gunboat churned back to its place, escorting the chancellor of Germany.

Morneau said, “Nice call, Inspector, but that’s not a newsreel crew.”

Sam was surprised. “It isn’t?”

Morneau laughed. “Nope. It’s the newest residents of a labor camp in Utah, about one day away from starting their twenty-year sentences. Freedom of the press, my ass. Morons.”

Chesak said, “Lucky morons. If they had gotten any closer, they would’ve been sunk.”

Sam put the binoculars on his lap, ran his palms across his pants, trying to dry them off. Oh, what a ball-buster of a day it was turning out to be. He heard a door open, footsteps on the gravel, and turned. Somebody familiar was approaching, in a Portsmouth police uniform. It seemed like a century ago when he had met Officer Frank Reardon and Leo Gray, poor disappeared Leo Gray, out there in the rain by the railroad tracks, examining the dead body that turned out to be an escaped Jew, escaping to God knew where.

Frank was carrying a paper bag, and a passing breeze brought the scent of coffee over to Sam. Frank said, “Hey, Sam. How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” he replied, remembering what LaCouture had said days ago about what the Portsmouth police would be doing on this historic day: directing traffic and fetching coffee. But if Frank looked embarrassed or humiliated at being a gofer, he was hiding it pretty well. Proudly pinned to his Portsmouth police uniform was the familiar Confederate lapel pin.

The cardboard cups of coffee were passed around, and when Frank approached him, Sam waved him off. “No, thanks. I’m fine.”